Page 5

Katya

I push through the last mile, my feet pounding against the pavement in a stable rhythm as morning light breaks over the city. It’s still early—barely seven—but the city’s already alive, cars honking, people rushing to make something of their day.

I pretend I’m one of them, normal, just a woman jogging to clear her head.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my hoodie, and I pull it out without breaking my stride. It’s a notification from my boss about a new assignment. I’ll read it later. Right now, I need the adrenaline to push away the memories.

Running helps clear my head, like a metronome for my anger. Especially on days like today when memories threaten to pull me under.

Five years. It's been five years since I last saw Irina.

The usual route takes me past the coffee shop where we used to meet every Sunday. I push myself harder, faster, trying to outrun the flashback I know is coming. But it hits anyway, as vivid as if it happened yesterday.

We were supposed to be catching up. A rare sisterly moment in my cramped dorm room in New York. I was a sophomore, my life a blur of classes and parties and internships. Everything exactly the way I’d planned.

Irina had flown in for the weekend, her layover before heading back to our old house in California. Mom had just moved to Illinois to be closer to where she grew up, something about needing comfort, a piece of her childhood to hold onto now that the end was near.

I had barely visited since college started. And when I did, it was always brief. A few days here, a weekend there. But Irina... Irina had been there. Holding things together while I stayed in school.

Maybe that’s why I felt so righteous when I caught her slipping up.

We were eating cheap Chinese takeout, legs crossed on my bed, half-laughing at some joke she’d made about my roommate’s terrible taste in music. Then her phone beeped. A text message.

I wouldn’t have paid attention if she hadn’t flinched when it lit up. But she did. And when she angled the screen away from me, I noticed.

“What was that?” I asked, my tone sharper than I intended.

“Nothing. Work stuff.”

“Since when do you hide work texts?”

She rolled her eyes but kept her phone facedown. “Jesus, Katya. Paranoid much?”

“Just curious.”

She knew I wouldn’t drop it. And she was right. Because when she left to grab coffee from the campus café, I checked her phone.

The message was still open.

“Can’t stop thinking about you. Last night was incredible.”

The number was unsaved. And I knew it wasn’t Anton.

She walked back into the room holding two paper cups with steam curling from the lids. My mouth was already moving before she even set them down.

“How could you do this to Anton?” I demanded. “He loves you. He’s planning to propose. You’re throwing everything away for what? Some affair?”

Irina’s laugh was hollow. “You don’t understand anything about love, little sister. You’ve never been in a real relationship. You don’t even try to let people in.”

“Because I’m not a selfish brat who screws over the people who care about me. Anton’s good for you, and you’re tossing him aside like he’s nothing. For what? A quick fuck with some guy you barely know?”

Her expression hardened. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Irina?” I snapped. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like that.”

She exhaled sharply, her hands trembling. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Her eyes went cold, lips pressed into a thin line. “You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with, Katya. You never pay attention unless it’s convenient for you.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. I’ve been here. Every time you needed me. Every time things fell apart and you wanted someone to blame. Who pulled you out of that rave party last summer when you got so drunk you were almost raped? Who lies for you every time you get caught sneaking out?”

“That’s your problem.” She snapped. “You’ve always had to be the hero. The good girl. The perfect little sister with her perfect little life. Always hovering, always judging.”

“I’m not judging you!” I shouted. “I’m trying to understand why you’re sabotaging everything good in your life. Why are you lying to me?”

“Because it’s none of your damn business!” Irina’s words lashed out like a whip. “You’re always so quick to tell me how I’m ruining my life. But you’re just as messed up as I am. You hide behind your stupid rules and your perfect routine, but you’re empty, Katya. You’ve always been empty. And you hate me for not being as miserable as you.”

“That’s not true,” I whispered, stunned. But she kept going, eyes wild, voice unraveling.

“You’re the most unreliable person I’ve met, Katya. Never fully here. Always one foot out the door. You never stay. Not really. And you resent me for trying to find something real. Something bigger than this empty, careful existence you cling to like it’ll save you.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Because somewhere deep down, I knew she was right. About my detachment. My fear of trusting anyone completely. But her cruelty overshadowed any truth.

“You’re insane. And pathetic. Anton’s going to find out what a liar you are, and when he leaves, you’ll have no one left. Not even me.”

Irina flinched, her anger splintering into something like pain. But she masked it quickly and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

“You think it’s so easy, don’t you? Just picking up your life and moving on. Starting fresh. You've got to run away, Katya. I’m just starting my life. Just having a breather.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I stayed! When Dad left Mom, I stayed. And who got to go live with Dad in his fancy condo downtown? You. And who stayed behind with Mom, watching her spiral, while you played the golden child, soaking up all the attention? You never even came to her first chemo sessions. Hell, you didn’t even know about them until she was already dying. I was the one who had to handle Mom falling apart. I was the one dealing with her breakdowns, the doctor’s appointments, and the bills she couldn’t pay. Rent. Groceries. I was practically drowning, Katya. You've got to go and live your life. All that freedom and you never even looked back.”

“That’s not fair,” I shot back. “I came back, didn’t I? I’m going to see her in Illinois.”

“Oh, now you’re going to see her?” Her laugh was bitter. “You haven’t been around, Katya. You think showing up now makes you some kind of hero?”

“I had school—”

“You had an excuse. You always do. While you were off building your perfect life, I was stuck. And now she’s in Illinois, acting like she wants a fresh start, but really? She just wants to be closer to you. Because she’s always wanted you, Katya. Even when you didn’t give a damn about her.”

“I do give a damn.”

“Sure.” Irina’s lips twisted. “You care when it’s convenient. When it makes you feel good about yourself. You’re visiting her now because she’s dying. Because it’ll look bad if you don’t. But where were you when she was losing her hair from chemo? When she couldn’t get out of bed for days? Where were you when I had to sell half her stuff just to pay for the damn treatments, because she didn’t have insurance that covered all? Her debts were piling up, the house was falling apart, and someone had to handle it. Someone had to work double shifts just to keep the lights on. You didn’t see any of that.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Because you didn’t ask. You just assumed I had it all handled. That I’d keep everything neat and pretty so you could drop in whenever you felt like being a good daughter.”

“That’s not true.” But even as I said it, I could feel the lie strangling me.

“It is true. You’re running off to Illinois now, but it’s not because you care. It’s because you’re trying to make yourself feel better. To prove you’re not the selfish, shallow person everyone thinks you are.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, Katya. But you’ve always made sure it tilted in your favor, haven’t you? You never cared for anyone but yourself. Not when it mattered. So, don’t stand there and pretend you’re better than me.”

“What do you want from me, Irina?” I snapped, my anger overriding the guilt in my chest. “An apology? For not abandoning my life like you did?”

“No. I just want you to admit that you only came back because you couldn’t handle the guilt. Because you were scared of what people would think of you if you didn’t.”

“That’s not why.” But the words were hollow, even to me.

“Keep telling yourself that. But you’re not a savior. You’re just selfish. You always have been. And you know what, Katya? I didn’t fight you for it. I let you have it because I thought... I thought you needed it more.”

I swallowed hard, the words burning in my throat. “Well, congratulations. You’re free now, Irina. Free to fuck up your life however you want. Keep making excuses, and blaming everything else to justify this shitty thing you’re doing, but don’t expect me to be here to clean up the mess.”

“Don’t worry.” Irina’s smile was thin and spiteful. “You never really were.”

“You know what? Sometimes I really wish you weren’t my sister.”

I stormed out, the echo of her words chasing me down the stairs

I couldn’t know then how final those words would feel. Or that they’d be the last real conversation we’d have. I told myself, after leaving, that it was Irina’s fault. That her recklessness had ruined everything. I’d let that inflate my ego into something ugly. I wanted to be the good daughter. The hero. And Irina saw through all of it.

But I was still so convinced I was right. She was selfish and reckless, dragging herself into something dangerous just for the thrill. I didn’t realize then that her desperation for more was rooted in pain. That she was already tangled in something shady.

And maybe that’s why, when she stopped responding to my texts a few months later, I didn’t push harder. I assumed she was ignoring me out of spite. That she was too stubborn to admit she’d fucked everything up. It was easier to believe that than to consider something worse. To face the possibility that my anger had blinded me to the danger she was really in.

I wanted to believe she was just being difficult. That she was punishing me for not letting her wreck her life. Because if I acknowledged something worse... it would mean I’d failed her completely.

I spent that year with Mom, caring for her while she slowly withered away. But my silence with Irina had nothing to do with Mom’s illness. It was pride. Stubbornness. The certainty that I’d been right and she’d been wrong. And maybe I was, about some things.

But Emily’s words kept spinning in my head. Irina was seeing someone new. Someone dangerous.

I should have seen it. I should have put the pieces together. But I’d been too consumed by my own bitterness. Too blind to see, she was just lost in something bigger than herself. When I returned a year later with shame and regret crushing my chest, her apartment was empty. No note. No forwarding address. Just murmurs about her involvement in Bratva.

Either way, I failed her. And I’m going to make Nikolai pay for it.

The memory releases me as I round the corner to my apartment building. Sweat drips down my back despite the cool weather. Time to get ready for work – my perfectly crafted cover as a lifestyle magazine writer. If only my editor knew how I really spent my free time, digging through the city's underbelly for any trace of Irina.

I shower and dress for work; my routine is automatic. Black jeans, a gray blouse, boots. I pack my laptop, check the time. Still too early. Maybe if I head in now, I can finish that article before lunch.

Settled in at work thirty minutes later, I shake it off and type, my fingers moving without much thought. This particular article’s on the city’s homeless crisis, and I’ve got interviews lined up for later.

Around noon, the editor-in-chief, and my horrible boss, Meredith, drops a stack of papers on my desk without looking up from her phone. “Edit these before you leave. We’re on a deadline.”

I nod, even though everything in me wants to yell out that this isn’t my job, but I keep my face neutral. And she doesn’t notice. She never does.

The hours go by in a blur. I type, edit, and send emails. When I finally clock out, it’s dark. I tug my jacket tighter and head for the subway. The platform’s half-empty, and a tingling sensation crawls up my spine. I glance around. Nothing. Just a couple of guys in suits, a teenager with headphones, a woman in scrubs.

I shake my head and board the train.

When I get off at my stop, I pick up the pace. The hairs on my neck prickle as I walk home. I check over my shoulder – nothing. Another block, I spot a glimpse of movement in my peripheral vision. But nothing concrete. I play it off as nothing and continue.

The parking garage looms ahead, but tonight it seems menacing. I take the long way around instead.

Three blocks from home, I hear footsteps echo behind me. I spin around. The street stretches empty in both directions, but the feeling of being watched intensifies. Survival instincts kick in, the ones I've honed investigating the Bratva. And I break into a run.

Thankfully, my building comes into view. I fumble with my keys, hands shaking as I unlock the front door. Rushing inside, I decide that the elevator would make me too vulnerable. I take the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor.

The moment I see my apartment door hanging open, my stomach drops.

"No, no, no." The words slip out as I push inside.

Destruction greets me. Cushions slashed. Papers scattered. Photos torn. My laptop lies shattered on the kitchen floor. But it's the message carved into my wooden table that stops my breath:

We’re watching you.

I grab my phone, fingers trembling as I dial 911. While waiting for the police, I scan the wreckage methodically, looking for anything missing. My research files that were hidden in the false bottom of my desk drawer remain untouched. Whoever did this wanted to scare me, not steal from me. My first thought is Nikolai, maybe this is some sick power play. But it doesn’t feel like him. It feels reckless, desperate.

Also why? After warning me to stay away from him the last time.

The cops arrive within minutes. Two officers – one older with graying temples, the other fresh-faced and eager.

"Ms. Yasenev?" The older officer steps forward. "I'm Officer Miller. Can you walk us through what happened?"

I describe finding the apartment in this state, being careful to sound appropriately rattled while keeping my voice stable. "I felt like someone followed me home, but I never saw them clearly."

"Any enemies? Someone who might want to hurt you?" The younger officer scribbles in his notepad.

Besides possibly the entire Russian mafia? "No. I write lifestyle pieces for Modern City Magazine. The worst I've done is give a bad review to a restaurant."

Officer Miller studies the carved message. "This suggests otherwise. Someone wants you to stop investigating something."

"I... I've been looking into my sister's disappearance." A calculated partial truth. "She vanished five years ago."

"Was that case ever solved?"

"No." The word tastes bitter. "The police found nothing."

The younger officer perks up. "Maybe this is connected? Someone who knows what happened to her?"

"We'll look into it," Miller says, but his tone suggests he's already filed this under random break-in. "For now, is there somewhere else you can stay?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine here."

"We strongly recommend—"

"This is my home." I meet his eyes. "I'm not leaving."

They take photos, dust for prints, ask more questions. I play my part – the scared but determined sister, just innocent enough to be believable. Finally, they leave with promises to increase patrols in the area.

Once they're gone, I lock my door and slide down against it.

Was it a warning? A message? Or was it just random? God. I hate how paranoid I’ve become, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

On instinct, I text the one person who might understand.

Nikolai.

Someone trashed my place. Was it you?

A minute passes. Then another. My phone buzzes.

No. But if someone is targeting you, maybe you should chill on the whole detective thing.

Wow, Mr. Ramensky, is that concern I hear? Should I call the tabloids?

I just hate funerals. Especially yours. I just know the catering would be terrible.

I snort. A laugh when I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s infuriating that he can still make me smile when I should be furious.

Good to know my tragic demise would inconvenience you.

Exactly. You’d ruin my week. Selfish.

The humor slips away. Because no matter how stupid it is, part of me wishes he actually cared. Which is ridiculous. He’s the biggest suspect in my sister’s disappearance, and here I am letting his jokes comfort me.

But I’m not stupid. If it wasn’t him, it’s someone else tied to the Bratva—or someone who knows about my investigation.

I stare at my ransacked apartment, my heart pounding. Whoever did this wanted me scared. Congratulations. It worked. Now I have to be more careful. But first, I’ll be more proactive about this whole thing.

My hands shake as I reach for my phone again, scrolling to a number I've never used.

It’s pathetic, really. I saved his number years ago but never called. After Irina disappeared, I couldn’t bring myself to. And not even when her name became just another cold case in the police’s cluttered files.

The truth is, I never believed Anton had anything to do with it. They broke up not long after I left for my mother. Irina told me casually, like it was nothing. Like she was fine.

"He’s sweet, and it was fun while it lasted, but I need to focus on myself."

The words had felt rehearsed even then. But I was too wrapped up in my own life to press her about it.

And when she went missing a few months later, I didn’t bother to reach out to him. Why would I? The police did their part, interrogating him like he was some jealous ex who couldn’t let go. He came out clean, of course. And he's polite enough not to be offended. Even cooperative. All the things that make someone seem safe.

But we weren’t friends. We never had been. So, I buried his number along with everything else, pretending he was a dead end.

Anton picks up on the third ring. "Who is this?"

"It's Katya. Irina's sister."

Silence stretches between us. When he speaks, his voice is rough. "Why are you calling?"

"Someone broke into my apartment tonight. Left a warning." I swallow hard. "I need to know what you remember about the weeks before she disappeared. Every detail."

"That was five years ago. Let it go, Katya."

"She was seeing someone around the time you two were together. Someone new. You must have noticed something."

He sighs loudly like this call is exhausting him before he speaks. "Listen, this isn’t supposed to be any of my business, but I’ll give you this simple advice for the love I once had for your sister. Stop digging." His voice turns strident. "If she was, in fact, involved with dangerous people who took her, then it would be better if we don’t mess with them. Some questions are better left unanswered."

"Anton, please. She's my sister."

"And she was my fiancée. And I really loved her. But she made her choice."

I falter, the breath knocked out of me. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means she went looking for something else. Whatever happened to her...she walked into it willingly. You need to understand that.” He pauses. “Maybe she found what she was looking for. Maybe she didn’t. But if she’s dead, Katya...if she’s really gone...she made her bed before she disappeared. Remember that.”

The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, my mind racing. Anton might know more than he's saying. But his warning feels genuine – just like the one carved into my table.

I stand up, surveying my destroyed apartment. They wanted to frighten me away. Instead, they've confirmed I'm getting close. Irina chose this path, but I never got to understand why. Never got to take back those last hateful words.

Moving to my desk, I pull out the hidden research files. Photos of Bratva members. Notes on their operations. Newspaper clippings about disappeared women. And in the center, a photo of Irina – smiling, beautiful, keeping secrets I'm only beginning to uncover.

"I'm coming for you, sister," I whisper. "Whatever it takes."